Get Over It
by Anrheithwyr
Summary: Fred, who had run the joke shop with him, Fred his identical twin, Fred who was as much a part of George as his crooked smile and loud voice. Fred, who was twenty, still, and lying coldly in a stone box, deep underground. Fred, who was louder and happier and who had died laughing-Fred, who had left George all alone with just his joke shop and his bitter heart.


_**Written for the 'Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition' Game Day 5: Weasleys, using George Weasley and the prompts: Radio, "We're running out of time", Back. (Chaser 2, Puddlemere United) **_

_**Written for the 'If You Dare Challenge' by Slytherin Cat, using prompt # 328, Get over it**_.

_**Written for the 'Ten times Ten Challenge' by Utlaga, using adjective: Bitter**_

….

The radio crackled and jumped, the voices mumbling one moment and annoyingly loud the next; George was tempted to hex the thing, though he wasn't sure where his wand actually was. Certainly, it wasn't in his twitchy fingers that beat out tuneless patterns on his jean leg; his pockets, too, seemed to be void of his wand, just containing bits of fluff and lint. George sighed, tapping his foot wildly to a tune only he could hear, the radio still going beside him, a droll man's voice rambling about chances of rain over the next week. George wore a bitter smile, a hard glint in his eye-surprisingly harsh emotions for one as young as he, just twenty-one; his red hair sat rumpled, yet limp, uncombed since the last time he'd visited his flat. His blue eyes are harsh, yet devoid of anything except the cold bitterness that has gripped his heart as well.

George moved so suddenly, it would have startled anyone who had been in the room; a young man sitting still but for a quiet twitching of digits was now standing impossibly tall, bent over in the store room. He ran a joke shop, such a surprising occupation for one as morbid and serious as he. For, there had once been a day when George was not so warped by bitterness as he was now; he had once been a happy, cheerful person who joked and played pranks on mates and family. But, those days were behind him now, a reminder of what almost seemed to be another life, when he had not been George Weasley, owner of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. Before he was twenty-one, George was twenty, and he had had a brother, Fred.

Fred, who had run the joke shop with him, Fred his identical twin, Fred who was as much a part of George as his crooked smile and loud voice. Fred, who was twenty, still, and lying coldly in a stone box, deep underground. Fred, who was louder and happier and who had died laughing-Fred, who had left George all alone with just his joke shop and his bitter heart. George can't help but curse his brother, whose final moments are ingrained into George's mind; _the laughing young man who fell back suddenly, the redheaded man who turned around, screaming loudly. "No, no! Oh, God, Fred, no!" Rookwood, slinking away into the darkness with a smirk; Ron crying out loudly while Hermione sobbed on his shoulder. _

No, he remembered his brother's last moments all too clearly. It was much too easy to recall the grin that leapt to Fred's face, much too easy to see the bright green curse that flew over their heads, destroying the wall behind them. He could too easily see the pain in his brother Percy's eyes, and the tears that drowned out everything else for the next few months. George grew bitter and George grew silent, listening to a crackly voice repeating the same story he had a few hours ago, a mindless story about some Muggle girl who'd gotten lost in the woods last week and had been found dead.

Anger boiling inside of him, making his fingers dance rapidly as he moved towards the radio, seizing it in his hand. _Crack! _He smashed it against the wall, the reporter's voice cutting off completely, suddenly, and George was left in silence once again. It wasn't _fair_, he wanted to cry. _It wasn't fair. _He screamed loudly then, a horribly piercing sound that cut through the silence, before petering off pathetically. His fingers searched blindly for bits of the smashed radio, wanting to break them again, wanting to smash them and turn them into dust, because it hurt. Because he wanted to feel _something again_, even if it was just pain.

"George, what's wrong with you?" asked a voice behind him. "George, please calm down." He hadn't even been aware that his hands had begun to grip merchandise, sending them to the floor; George hadn't noticed the tears in his eyes as he kept thinking _it isn't fair_. "George, listen to me!" the person cried out, and he felt fingers wrap around his wrist, trying to keep him still. "Please, please calm down-George, you've got to calm down. George, you've got to get over it!"

"_Get over it." _These are the words that shock him back into existence, shock him back into an angry passion of punches. Because he's George Weasley, and he can't _get over it_; because he's George Weasley, and the only way to bring him out of the quiet, bitter snake wrapped around his heart is to poke it with a big stick. "_Get over it." _These are the words that bring him out of his silence and his burning anger towards…who? Was he mad at Fred for dying? _(Yes.) _Was he mad at Rookwood, for killing his brother? _(Yes.) _Was he mad at himself for still being alive, still breathing?

_Yes, yes, yes. _

He was angry and bitter, yet silent-blocking out the world, pretending like he wasn't living in a collapsing house of cards. Until, along came a young girl named Verity Cariad, his assistant at Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. A tiny little girl at eighteen, Verity had been working for the shop since she was fifteen, and George considered her to be something akin to a little sister, or at least a close cousin. He shouldn't have been so surprised that the girl with such emotion and spark would say something like that him. _"Get over it, George. He's dead, and you're not. Get over it." _

George wanted to sock her then and there, wanted to punch her out cold, but something stopped him, as if a voice was telling him that Verity had a valid point. _Listen to her. She's speaking the truth. _And George stood there in the shop, anger boiling in his stomach, but he did not touch Verity. "_Get over it._"-that's what she told him, and he felt the bitter snake wrapped so tightly around him that he could barely breath. She infuriated him, and George hated what she was saying to him right then; but, he stood still, listening to Verity tell him what the others had been too afraid to say all these past few months: the truth.

"Listen to me, George, and listen clearly." Verity told him, her voice sharp, but her eyes showing concern. "Listen to me, you've _got _to get over him. I know he's your brother and you love him and miss him-but he's dead, and Fred isn't coming back. Fred's _never coming back_, don't you understand? And sitting here, waiting for him? That certainly won't bring him back either. He was your twin brother, George, and he's gone. I pity you, I truly do, because I can tell this is just _devastating_. But you're going to put your entire life on hold because of him? You're going to stop following your dreams because of him? Fred is dead, and he's not coming back, George. You need to get over it, before your anger and sadness and bitterness consume you. You're being swallowed up by your own bitterness, and soon you'll be running out of time to fix it."

….

"We're running out of time," Angelina told him, one hand over her stomach, the other clutching a dirty rag that she was using to wash up their son's face. Her dark curls were pinned up and she looked exhausted, running back and forth between her job at Quality Quidditch supplies, as well as maintaining five and a half-year old Fred, and making sure the baby was ok. George didn't envy Ange her busy schedule, nor did brush over her problems like he had seen some husbands do before. "We just don't have enough time to do all of this." She waved one of her hands in the direction of the baby's room.

_All this _was referring to the extensive process of painting the room and buying furniture for their soon-arriving daughter. George had been putting it off recently, not wanting to remind himself that there were only five months left to go; oh, yes, he was terribly excited about his daughter's birth, but it had been nearly six years since the last time they'd had a child, and he just wasn't sure what to do anymore. He wasn't quite certain he wouldn't screw up this time around, wouldn't mess up with raising his little girl.

After all, hadn't he already messed up with Freddie? The poor boy, who he'd named after George's brother; Freddie, who would never stand up to the name he was given, no matter how hard he tried to. George regretted the name now, having realised that he'd named his son _Fred _in the hopes it would somehow bring back that mischievous smile, those carefully calculating looks between twin brothers. He had named his son after a dead man, hoping to get his brother back-and all he'd done was put pressure on a young child's shoulders.

He could tell that, even at five and a half, Fred was trying to live up to expectations he couldn't handle, was trying to be someone he wasn't; after all, Daddy was a prankster and owned a joke shop. Didn't that mean Freddie ought to be funny, too? Didn't that mean he should make people laugh and smile, just like Daddy? George saw the way his son struggled to live up to the idea that _he should be funny, too_, and it hurt. He hadn't even been aware he was doing this to his son, putting pressure on a young boy's shoulders when he couldn't even write out his own name properly.

George hadn't meant to do this to his son, hadn't meant to mess up his life by naming him Fred. He had done in for his own selfish reasons, wanting a connection with his dead brother, and desperate enough to do it however he could. He hated himself for having done this to poor Fred, having put his own dreams and desires onto a young boy. Fred was five years old and already so desperate to prove himself to his father, and all George could see was a boy who _wasn't his brother_. When had he messed up, turning into some horrible parent trying to live through their child? When had he begun to run out of time to show his son how much he cared? When had he begun to run out of time to spend with his only son, who wasn't just _Fred, _but _Freddie? _

He was running out of time to show Fred just how much he loved him. He was running out of time to explain just how much he loved Freddie for being _Freddie_, and not George's twin brother, Fred. He was running out of time before Freddie would hate him for pushing expectations onto him, piling them on one after the other, some that neither of them would even be aware of. He was ruining his son's life, and George didn't have enough time in the world to make it all right, to fix things, to make his son happy.

_He was running out of time. He was ruining his son. _

"George, are you okay?" Ange asked him, moving closer towards her husband. Her eyes were filled concern at the panicked, empty look on her husband's face. He looked stressed, close to tears, and Angelina wondered if she had done something to upset him. Recently, he seemed to be so unstable, emotionally, and she was finding it difficult to get him to talk; he wouldn't explain what was upsetting him, as emotionally frustrated as Freddie. "George, please talk to me, please explain what's going on? I can't help you get back on track if we don't discuss what's happening to you. I can't help you get over it if you don't explain to me what you're feeling. George, please talk to me."

Bitterness. Anger. Emptiness. Frustration. Sadness. He had ruined his son, he was out of time to do anything more, to fix anything. Fred was gone, and he was only making Freddie's life worse. What had he done? Where had he gone wrong, and what was there left to do? Fred, laughing as he died. Freddie, tugging at George's shirt, trying to show him a picture he'd drawn. Both were people he could have helped, and yet, he did nothing. He hadn't saved Fred, he had turned Freddie away with complaints that he was busy.

Behind him-or maybe just in his head-, a radio crackled to life, repeating empty words that had no meaning to him anymore. Repeating empty promises he'd never fulfilled, repeating empty warnings about bruises he was inflicting on those around him. The radio crackled and hummed away, leaving George with nothing to do but stand there and realise what he'd been doing wrong all along. Leaving him to realise the mistakes he'd always been making, and the ones he was making now. The radio crackled to life, and George felt the bitter snake in him squeeze just a little tighter once more.

_You're running out of time. _

_Get over it. _

_He's not coming back. _


End file.
